


so pass the vino (mi mal amigo)

by mirandabeach



Category: Buzzfeed: Worth It (Web Series)
Genre: Drinking, Getting Together, M/M, not exactly in that order
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-31 10:39:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15117650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirandabeach/pseuds/mirandabeach
Summary: He feels wholly inadequate as he shakes Andrew’s hand, damn near whispers that it was his first day and he’d be helping with filming before ducking his head back towards the camera. He checks the settings again, so fraught and shaken by this simple introduction that he honestly didn’t know what else to do with himself.Andrew had only huffed, a small thing that brought the smallest curve to his mouth.He was blinded, watching those eyes flicker with gold. They hurt to look at, and Adam felt triumphant.





	so pass the vino (mi mal amigo)

**Author's Note:**

> finally putting my money where my url is (i'm gonna raise this ship from the fucking ground even if it kills me)
> 
> huge thanks to everyone who helped beta / proofread this monster!! bee, nadine, leo and mila.... i love you bastards.
> 
> title and inspiration from the song “pass the vino” by mathien, all wines mentioned are 100% real, and if you notice any other song references.... turn your location on, i just wanna talk my tumblr is @adamdrews

When they first meet, Adam’s so sure the man’s at least few years his senior; even though he’s a junior producer, Andrew Ilnyckyj carries himself with such ease and confidence that one might mistake him for a more arrogant man. The expression on his face is flat, something not quite a scowl but nothing too pleased either. He’s not the tallest Adam’s ever seen, but his shoulders are _broad_ ; the way he holds himself, that self-assurance humming under his skin easily making up for the slouch that seems to be one of the constant perks of a production job.  Adam soaks these in, already committing this man to memory: things would change too quickly here, people would come and go, and Adam wanted to be sure to savor every detail. He watches the man walk on set, his eyes a color somewhere between green, grey and gold.

He feels wholly inadequate as he shakes Andrew’s hand, damn near whispers that it was his first day and he’d be helping with filming before ducking his head back towards the camera. He checks the settings _again_ , so fraught and shaken by this simple introduction that he honestly didn’t know what else to do with himself.

Andrew had only huffed, a small thing that brought the smallest curve to his mouth.

He was blinded, watching those eyes flicker with gold. They hurt to look at, and Adam felt triumphant.

It’d be nearly five years before Buzzfeed Video hits its stride, somewhere in-between moving out of the small office they managed to snag in Central L.A. and into the massive one closer to Hollywood. For a while, their content was still primarily one-off scripted videos, though a few lucky series were beginning to gain some traction. It was an interesting time for Adam, who rather enjoyed bouncing from project to project and department to department. It kept him on his toes, kept him adaptable and most important of all, kept him from getting _bored_.

He saw Andrew often enough, around the office and during shoots together. His stomach would do a complicated loop whenever he saw an email for an upcoming Violet short. Andrew had gained some of that previously mentioned traction all on his own, and Adam started working with the man more often than not. He forced down those odd feelings from the early days rather quickly, labeling them as honest, unbridled admiration. Andrew wasn’t that much older than him, despite what he’d first suspected. (He seemed so much wiser than that, like he had his life together, like wasn’t afraid of any of it at all).

Some days, despite being thoroughly swept up in the flurry that was Buzzfeed and the unbearable amount of work demanding his attention, Adam felt like he was in over his head. He had no idea how he managed to get here, to fool so many into thinking he was capable. His coworkers were amazing at their jobs, the lines between actors and editors and producers blurring for the sake of quality content. He felt like he was simply following in their tracks, attempting to participate in front of the camera and shoving _those_ feelings of inadequacy even further from himself. It really wouldn’t do to throw up on set.

This train of thought often left him with a deep exhaustion, an ache somewhere in the center of his being that left him wanting nothing more than to go home and sleep until things hurt. But then he’d spot the steep slope of Andrew’s shoulders across the office, hear the low timbre of his voice or catch a quick smile in his direction, and everything would click into place again.

It took him awhile to realize how much he relied on these little things from Andrew, how they started to pass by one another to say hello more often, exchange a few words and silent reassurances. Adam pushed those thoughts away. He tried to mimic his steadfast self-assurance and belief in his abilities, and at some point, he hardly questioned things anymore.

Andrew mentioned it while wrapping a shoot, sometime around his one-year at Buzzfeed. He’d been kind enough to stick around and help break everything down, to keep Adam from being stuck there until the late hours of the morning. The companionable silence was an immense comfort after the downright insane events of the day.

“You’re a lot more confident now.”

The sound made Adam glance up, meeting Andrew’s gaze from across the studio. His eyes were a more muted green in this lighting, but still gave him pause. Adam hadn’t answered quickly enough, so he clarified.

“Thought you were scared of me. When we first met.”

Aam had no idea. Adam was _terrified_ of what this man was doing to him.

“It’s been about a year.” Adam’s turned away from him, packing up a camera. His face feels like it’s on fire.

He’s not sure why he brought it up. Maybe he wanted Andrew to really understand how far he’s come, maybe he just felt like it was a better time than any to share. But it made _him_ pause this time, a faint smile pulling at the corner of Andrew’s mouth.

“Time really flies. Let me buy you a drink to celebrate then.”

Adam agrees faster than his brain could stop himself, and the smile on Andrew’s face is infectious.

He wonders if he’s made a mistake, remembers why learning of Andrew’s age had rattled him so deeply. They could become _friends_ , the potential so potent outside of these walls, outside of everything Buzzfeed encapsulated. Adam felt the mold Andrew fit in his mind begin to crack, his feelings slipping through and his mind began to consider-

But no. Andrew was just that. Someone he worked with. Someone he _admired_.

Work would stay separate. He’d be sure to stay on track, after this drink of course.

\---

The drink turns to a lot of drinks, then taking their lunches together, hanging out after work, making plans for the weekend– suddenly, Adam realizes he’d gone flying off the damn tracks _months ago_.

He tells himself this is still safe; they’re sort of friends, yes, but coworkers first and foremost. His is something comfortable and easy, their jobs the main thing pushing them towards each other. But that image he had of Andrew – one that had fit so easily in his mind under labels like “colleague” (and sometimes “perfection”) – kept cracking, new facets seamlessly filling in the spaces left behind. Adam still admired the man a great deal, but as time went on, how little he began to mind this shift should have been concerning.

(Adam ignores the voice in the back of his mind screaming “you’re spending more time with him than you ever would a partner”, and tries not to choke.)

Things don’t change much after Tasty is started, Buzzfeed’s spin on an social media based food network. It’s not a bad concept, with new baking and cooking shows were popping up left-and-right. Adam was more than excited to get involved: he thought back to making struffoli and puttanesca dishes with his mother, when he was barely tall enough to see above the kitchen counter without his own step stool. (He slapped dinosaur and flame stickers all over it, and kept it in his room even after he hit his growth spurt.) Once his college friends learned he experimented with cooking _in his free time_ , their get-togethers quickly devolved into conversations like “Adam, I will give you $20 and a blowjob if you make me dinner. I can put down the deposit right now” and “Adam, can you help me read my grandmother’s cookie recipe? I swear this is written in Nazi code, yeah she was that old!”

He swore he wasn’t some master chef, but once he got into the groove of things, he felt confident enough to pass off his creations to coworkers. Those college conversations rinsed and repeated, propositions and all.

Andrew joins Tasty right there alongside him, and now that they’re officially working in the same department, he moves from halfway across the office to Adam’s neck of the woods. He isn’t told the news until Andrew’s in front of him, his desk-box in hand. There’s a plushie sticking out between two folders, the sight so ridiculously mundane that it takes Adam a second to realize oh, he’s serious. He places everything on the desk diagonal from him, already sporting his computer and multiple monitors. He begins rattling off some logistics and stray ideas he’s had for videos while waving around a stuffed ice cream cone. Adam nods along, something he’s learned to default to whenever Andrew does something to surprise him again. It’s a common occurrence, these days.

His current desk-buddy, a chemical engineer-turned-junior video producer, looks constipated as Andrew quiets and settles in. Steven is plenty friendly, runs his mouth a mile-a-minute when he’s nervous but usually follows Adam’s lead in the companionable silence. When Andrew shoots one of those spiritless looks at him, the man knocks over his chair in his hasty exit.

Adam can respect that reaction, considering it’s exactly what he wanted to do when he met the man. (He suspects for different reasons, though.)

They start planning content together; Adam gets dragged back to the ridiculous “crush” shorts for Violet, and on the Tasty side, they film silly things like mini smores pies and pizza roses. It’s pleasant camaraderie, and they’re still hanging out just as much – if not more – than usual. He can ignore the fluttering in his heart on most days, almost falling back into those easy labels and easy Andrew-shaped mind molds. But a particularly joyous laugh, one that makes his eyes crinkle at the edges, will hit him like a punch to the gut. And Adam is right back at square one.

He lets whatever this is between them feed his soul, and he’s toeing such a dangerous line that he’s not sure what he’s going to do if he tips over.

They’re eating lunch at some burger joint closer to Hollywood, one with a beer list double the size of their actual menu. Adam’s still picking at his sweet potato fries, Andrew finishing off the last dregs of his imported stout. (He’d clicked his tongue when he first tried it, pushing it at Adam to try. It was way too bitter.)

“We’re friends, right?” The question is so _vulnerable_ , but if Andrew was feeling nervous, he’s doing a damn good job of hiding it. Adam fumbles with a fry, and he’s the one being thrown for the loop.

 _Are they_? Do friends get distracted by their friends’ eyes? Or the way their hair sticks up on a humid day, begging his hands to card through and pat it down?

Adam was terrified to acknowledge this as friendship, that doing so would open the floodgates in his chest and leave him struggling to stay afloat. But he wonders, worries he’s misconstrued everything beyond saving and settles for a safe answer like the coward he is.

“You sound like Steven.”

The joke gets Andrew laughing, so much more vibrant than the soft chuckles from just a few years ago. Adam can’t help the smile that overtakes his face, and he wonders how ridiculous he looks trying to keep it at bay.

“Oh, _very_ funny.” Andrew pauses, tongue poking out to wet his lips. They look at each other for a moment, something long and meaningful. The hard lines in his face are nowhere to be seen, the smile there so _earnest_ it’s making Adam’s chest ache.

The gold in his eyes began to dance, and the dam finally bursts.

“I guess that answers my question.”

Adam wonders if it does.

\---

Worth It begins like a hurricane.

Steven Lim made up most of that hurricane, long limbs and constant conversation dragging Adam center stage for everything this series was gearing up to be. The man is honestly brilliant; hearing about his move from engineering to Buzzfeed had Adam _wishing_ he was that brave, and willing to drop everything to pursue a childhood passion.

When he came to them with the concept for Worth It, an almost-maniacal grin overtook over his face, excitement slurring his words near unintelligible. Adam caught a few of the buzzwords, his talk of “price points” and setting up interviews with chefs. Eventually, he had to look to Andrew for relief from Steven’s intensity. He found the man already turned his way. And maybe that’s where things went wrong – that first _look_ , knowing they opened their books and landed on the same exact page.

They agree silently and instantly, and it’s all downhill from there.

There was so much more to L.A than he ever thought, and Adam let himself get dragged across the city, then the state, then the _world_ on this ridiculous food adventure. He couldn’t help getting caught up in it all: the people, the travel, the _food_. Some of it was so exuberant, caviar-filled tacos and thousand-dollar cake, and some was so mundane; like lunch with friends, where you all finally go to that place you’ve been meaning to try for months.

He has no idea how to thank Steven for setting this all in motion. It was insane, and felt like jumping off a cliff without a parachute. But this – unlike many other (Andrew-shaped) things in his life – he stopped being so scared of.

Though sometimes, the inadequacy would sneak on him again – watching the two of them interact through the lens of his camera. Steven pushed Andrew in a way he never could, bringing out the best in him with nothing more than unbridled goodness and well-intentioned teasing. He could see the man finally let himself be swept up by the flurry of the show, bright smiles and hearty laughs slipping through and becoming normal for on-camera Andrew. Adam watched them become _friends_ , easily and with no fear in sight.

Feelings simmer in his gut, jealousy and inferiority threatening to bubble over.

But then Andrew would look away from Steven, from the camera, shifting his full attention just beyond it and meeting Adam’s gaze. He takes the offering, grasping at the lifeline and pulling himself back to reality. Andrew’s smile becomes softer, full of fondness, and he’s back to talking about the food.

That’s right, no distractions; they had a show to do.

\---

Adam shoves the key he had made during his lunch break into Andrew’s chest.

His face feel like it’s on fire, and he’s grateful the man doesn’t say anything as he adds it to his keyring.

\---

He had a feeling those pesky drinks would come back to haunt him one day.

Adam can already tell he’s in for a treat when they set up their interview at Osteria Mamma with the floor-to-ceiling wine rack as the backdrop. He’s thinking back to his mother’s kitchen again, when he would sneak sips of cooking wine from its rack next to the toaster. It was absolutely awful, but he learned to appreciate a good red as he got older. Now, his eyes are raking over the hundreds of bottles, quietly oohing at the few that catch his eye. Andrew shoots him an amused look, and finishes setting up the camera in his stead.

After the dishes have been served and Adam has taken Steven’s seat, stomach curling and beyond ready to try some of the food, Andrew lightly taps his knuckle against the glass of Bocale.

“Here.”

He passes the wine towards him, and Adam greedily lets the faint scents of violet and spice drift to his nose before tipping his head back for a sip. The hum he makes is throaty and deep, tongue chasing the lingering drops off his lips.

“That’s good.”

Andrew is silent, brow wrinkled and the line of his shoulders coiled tight.

“Yeah?” It’s almost a whisper, and the look in his eyes burns right through Adam. “I usually pick based on the label.”

Then his tone is back to normal and Adam feels like he’s got whiplash. But once he processes what exactly what the man said, he grimaces, quickly shaking his head and making a disgusted noise.

Andrew laughs at his reaction, so he’ll take that as a compromise.

“That’s how you end up with shitty wine.” Adam takes another sip, letting the flavors coat his tongue and waiting to see Andrew’s retort.

“I think it’s a fair risk.” It’s just a touch indignant, but the man’s face is soft, like the light from the window reached out and pushed away the furrow itself.

“Sure. Well– I have an extra bottle of my favorite cabernet at home.” Adam didn’t mean to make it sound like _that_ , but the invitation came tumbling out of his mouth faster than he could stop it.

Those green eyes gleamed, and the _bastard_ just smirks. His heart starts to feel like a train slamming against his ribs, up into his throat.

\---

It turns into some strange game, their back-and-forth exchange of wine. The rules were never decided, but it devolved into finding the most ridiculous names and labels, all to make the other laugh. Adam didn’t like to sacrifice quality for a joke, so he never quite got Andrew doubling over in laughter. But the wine would make their chests warm, smiles brighter and laughs flowing like honey. Sometimes it would feel like it was more than it was, like they were sitting on the edge of a cliff, waiting for gravity to tip them over.

Or maybe Adam was just delirious: you can only take so much “ _I got this because it reminded me of you_ ” before your heart feels like it’s bursting from your rib cage and flinging itself from the cliff ahead of you. He doesn’t know what’s happening to him, what this tangled mess of feelings and affection has turned him into.

_‘We’re friends, right?’_

He still thinks over that question sometimes, over Andrew’s belief in his unspoken answer. He decides that yes, they are.

And maybe he’s just a _really_ bad friend.

\---

“Hey, this matches your sweater… did you notice that?”

\---

Another blessed Friday finally rolls around, the last minutes of work ticking by agonizingly slow by before someone says ‘fuck it’ and leaves at exactly four forty-one. Everyone scrambles out after that, sharing their plans for the weekend and wishing luck to the stragglers still stuck trying to get a video out. Steven was one of those unfortunate souls, sending a distracted wave Andrew and Adam’s way as they headed out.

Their wine game had been going on for months at this point, the two of them bringing their coworkers into the mix to ask for recommendations and if they’d engage in some friendly espionage. It was fun, and they took to saving some of the more memorable bottles: The Whole Shebang, Honey Moon, and Fat Bastard.

It’d been a few weeks since they last hung out, pre-production for Worth It and their other projects having them working late into the night and eating up the much-needed weekends. It’s good to see each other outside of work again, and they spend the drive to Adam’s apartment in comforting silence. Buzzfeed can get hectic on a _regular_ day, but Friday’s were like a live-wire: the general end-of-week buzz combined with the any last-minute scrambling for a weekend shoot. So a little silence is more than refreshing.

Andrew moves past him in the hallway, smirking as he opens the door with his new key. The spare blends in far too well with his own set, and the thought makes Adam’s heart clench. They toss their shoes by the door, and Andrew moves through his apartment with ease. Like he belongs here.

“What do you have for me this time?” Adam asks, pushing past the lump in his throat.

They fall back onto the couch, the soft cushions already relieving some of the tension gathered in Adam’s back. Andrew leans forward and stretches, cracking his back before turning towards his bag.

“BigAss Cab.”

Adam can’t help it. The guffaw just slips out, and Andrew looks like he caught the canary. He pulls the bottle out so the other man could appraise the design. Two caricatures, large and exaggerated on purpose, held each other close as they danced. It was cute, if not a bit crude.

They drain the entire bottle easily between the two of them, falling into quiet conversation between the attention they give the movie. The bottle is over too quickly for their liking, and when Adam goes to grab his own choice of wine, Andrew follows, the empty bottle tucked under his arm. The sight is ridiculous, and quickly deposited next to his sink.

“So? What did you bring _me_?”

Andrew is making grabby hands, looking petulant and ridiculous and still ridiculously beautiful. Adam swallows around these thoughts, turning to his cabinet. Andrew seats himself at his kitchen table, a dingy metal thing that was actually as old as it looked, gifted to him by his nonna when he announced he was moving to L.A. Adam heads over to it, passing the bottle and waiting for the man’s verdict. The label matches the name nicely, The One-Armed Man. Andrew inspects the design, a well-dressed man with only one arm staring back at him. He cracks a smile, grabbing the corkscrew from the table. They cheers again, and Adam takes his time to see Andrew’s reaction to it.

“Why do I taste something spicy?” Andrew licks at his lips, thoughtful for a second before glancing at Adam with curious look on his face. He could just look at the description for himself, but they’re past that: Andrew knows he pours over ingredients and _understands_ these flavors, has a palette for wine that rivals his for cooking.

“Pepper. Some nutmeg maybe. You notice the oak?”

Andrew takes another pull from the glass, and Adam is fascinated by the way his jaw works to move the wine around on his tongue. There’s a flush high on his cheekbones already, the first wine they slammed through not doing either of them any favors. But they pretended to play professional, wading through the comforting fog of alcohol in their brains and slowness of their limbs.

It’s so domestic, the two of them in his kitchen, drinking wine alongside the noise of the TV drifting in from the living room. Andrew finishes off his wine quickly, and begins twisting the stem of the glass between his thumb and forefinger. Adam lets his thoughts drift, watching the motion and allowing his mind to fill with _Andrew_.

His stupid, floppy, perfect hair. The scruff he lets fill in his face, like tall wheat grass on sloping hills. And what could he even say about those arms that hasn’t been said already? They’re strong, solid just like the rest of him dotted with the same shade of gold as his face. His fingers, his _hands_ , just as big as Adam’s but so warm and so much firmer. He imagines them slipping between his own, holding tight and tethering him to Earth.

He glances up, and Andrew’s stare is wild. His eyes are piercing, lips and cheeks stained cherry pink. (Like he’d been doing the same appraising of _Adam_. No, that was impossible.)

“You clearly won. That wine was crazy good.”

Adam doesn’t feel like he’s won, only feels nauseous and aroused and painfully in love.

\---

Worth It expands: the budget, the travel, the views. A year and two seasons pass by before he knows it.

It’s weird to be on a project he’s so genuinely proud of, to have just as much stake in this thing going well as Steven or Andrew does. They coax him on camera more, he plans a few episodes, allows himself to be in the final edit.

(When Andrew asked him, “You like that?” for the first time, he nearly chokes around the fork still being held in his mouth. He made sure that didn’t make it in.)

The first time he sends an episode to his mother, his cheeks feel like molten lava and he clutches his mouse so tightly he nearly snaps a piece of it off. But then he feels something tap his shoulder, then his forehead, and he snaps to Andrew poised and ready to throw another piece of candy corn at him.

Adam raises an eyebrow, and he raises one right back.

“You ready or what?”

Adam opens his mouth, catches the candy easily. They exchange smiles, and Andrew mutters something that sounds a little like ‘calm down already’ before turning back to his computer.

\---

Adam holds his hand in New York, and lets it become a joke for the camera.

He tries not to regret it.

\---

Australia is breathtaking.

Well. After the horrendous flight, and dealing with Steven’s constant pleas to film near the water despite the already freezing temperatures and biting wind. The scenery was beautiful, the rolling hills and vibrant city skylines a sight to see even from the comfortable heat of their rented van. The episodes would turn out well too,

But Adam can’t sleep, and apparently neither can Andrew. There’s a knock on his door around three-thirty, a quiet but determined rhythm to it, and Andrew is being illuminated by the light from the hallway. His hair is falling across his forehead, still a little wet and free of product. He looks so _soft_ , .

He should be a least somewhat concerned that the man _knew_ he would be awake, that Adam’s habits had become as second nature to him as his own. But he isn’t. He’s just _tired_.

They don’t stray too far from the hotel, it’s too cold too; they opt to travel the couple of blocks to the beachfront and pace along the boardwalk. It’s a surprisingly clear night, the faint trace of stars mostly swallowed by the lights from the city. The waves crash against the rocks a few yards away, wind whipping at their jackets and forcing them to huddle close as they walk. No one says anything for a long while, Adam’s brain too restless and just trying to take in the view. Eventually, Andrew is the one to pause and he looks out towards the water, the deep black of it swallowing the color of his eyes.

“Do you still have a crush on the lady who shoots her lunch? She was pretty cute.”

Adam’s not sure why he asks; maybe the Muscadelle was still thrumming in his veins, making his mouth more brazen than his brain. Maybe it’s to torture himself, so he can hear the man he’s so far gone for wax poetics about a person Adam is the polar opposite of. Or maybe it was to keep the more intrusive thoughts from rising to the surface, the ones that chastised, _one thousand dollar wine, did you really deserve it? Any of this?_ The off-feeling had been creeping in since they left L.A., the jet lag settling deep in his bones and making the approaching ache burrow itself further into his soul.

Adam mindlessly kicks at some sand that’s collected on the pier, blown onto the wood and away from its place in the world. He waits.

“I think I’m over her.”

They’re not looking at each other, but Adam just hears the honesty, and the words are far too earnest for this situation. But then again, when did either of them ever stick to conventions? Australia in winter, nearly four in the morning, an empty boardwalk. Coworker, admirer, _bad bad friend_.

“Yeah?” It’s just a breath, carried easily by the harsh wind to Andrew. Their eyes meet, and the color of Andrew’s changes again, the green not-as-dark but something _determined_.

“Yeah. But she helped me figure out where I needed to be.”

Were they still talking about the wine? Or are they finally touching on _this_ – these unspoken circles they’ve been running around each other for the past three years. Their way-too-easy friendship, lingering gazes, ridiculous game of cat-and-wine. Their everything, everything, everything.

(Adam doesn’t feel like he’s where he needs to be. In fact, he feels like he’s even more than eight thousand miles away from home.)

They had moved closer at some point, the fabric of their jackets brushing and breath tangling together between them. This isn’t new, something has been pulling them towards each other since day one. The cold isn’t so bad like this: Andrew looking up at him, their arms pressing into each other like brands, even through their clothes. The wind has pushed his hair even more into his face, and the _want_ surges in his gut. Adam could so easily bring his fingers up to brush the strands away, before moving to cradle his jaw and finally, finally, finally-

Andrew’s full attention is on him, and this time there’s no camera around his neck, no Steven, no anything.

Adam thinks back to the mold the man used to fit in his mind, now just shattered remains of plaster and misconceptions.

He forced himself to take a step back, the cold immediately shooting through him and clenching tight around his heart. Andrew blinked, confused by the sudden distance between them. His face shifts, and he’s cursing under his breath and pushing his hair back himself.

Adam had run, just one more circle to buy himself more time.

\---

They don’t talk about Australia.

They have a break from filming, Japan just a couple of months away. It’s a welcome relief, but things aren’t quite the same as they left it.

Andrew doesn’t seem phased by what happened at all, and it’s like they’re back at the beginning. Adam watches him from across the office, the man doing anything to be away from his desk. Adam was left waiting– for a look, a wave, _anything_ to come his way– and the constant disappointment in his throat is bitter and vile.

Steven really did manage to pull some sunshine out of Andrew’s ass, and the man was somehow even more enthralling than before. Only now, Adam wouldn’t– _couldn’t_ – let himself get swept up in it.

The freight train that is his heart had shot itself over the cliff, and Adam was falling through hell along with it.

He’s laughing at someone’s joke, and his eyes crinkle. Adam can’t see them from this far, but he knows– the creases and grooves along the corners that are the only indication of how old the man really is. Adam always covered his own with his glasses, didn’t want to think about the years ticking by when he gazed into the mirror every morning. He thinks he might hate a little Andrew for becoming so giving; handing out those beautiful laughs like simple charity.

He’s become someone that brightens up a room, silently and shamelessly.

And lately, Adam felt like he was someone that darkened it.

\---

He takes a vacation– pools all of his leave and calls in nearly every favor he was owed in the office just so he could _take a fucking break_ and maybe get over this funk.

Steven is blowing up his phone, and even Matt shoots him a quick text, asking if he’s seriously not getting back until the day before they’re leaving for Tokyo.

Adam shuts his phone off, makes the twelve-hour drive up to the Redwood coast, and begins to heal.

He managed to get himself a week and a half, and spends nearly all of it hiking the hundreds of trails. He takes thousands of pictures of the trees, the way they disappear up into the heavens and the patches of life rising from hell at their bases. He makes sure to wear himself out, the trek back to camp nearly making him regret it, until the ache that rooted itself somewhere deep within him started being replaced by the physical one. The exertion lifts him back up to Earth, sets his feet on the ground and tethers him.

Camp is right along the coast nestled in the tall beachgrass, and Adam spends some nights in the backseat of his car and others in his tent watching the stars. On occasion, he even joined groups at nearby campfires, listening to their stories and whatever instruments they dragged along with them. The camaraderie is nice, easy to relax into and free of judgement. He quickly gets used to waking up with the sunrise, using the morning light to comb the shores for agate and moonstone. He finds one the color of pale honey, and he thinks about Andrew.

He never stops thinking about Andrew, really. Something out of the corner of his eye and he’ll imagine the man is just a few feet away, crouched over a patch of mushrooms or skipping stones across the water. On the rare day he spends walking the coast instead of the forest, there are moments the wind picks up and suddenly he’s back on that boardwalk, the sand biting at his skin like the Australian winter. It lays his feelings bare, forces him to think.

And Adam never really stops thinking about that hurt look on his face, how easily it was hidden behind silence and a smile. He was drowning - in fear, in fondness, in love.

On his last day, he wakes up before the sun. Re-packing the car up takes way more time than he thought, so he’s driving along the coast and the redwoods just as the sun is starting to peek over the horizon and turn everything pink. The windows are down and the breeze whips at his beard, hum of the radio barely audible above the noise. He turns his phone back on, sets it in a cup holder and doesn’t check it until he reaches Petaluma.

There’s way too much from social media, and Adam easily disregards every notification. Coworkers wishing him a good vacation, sending him a fun story so he wouldn’t be too out-of-the-loop when he returned. There’s a few new things from Steven, mostly a series of different pouty faces and audio messages. But one message is different, teeming with the promise of _something more_ beyond the simple words.

Andrew

 **_Sun_** _,_ **_Aug 13_** _, 2:52 AM_

I’ll be waiting for you when you get back.

His healed heart skips more than a few beats.

As he passes through San Francisco, Adam takes one last look out at this side of the Pacific; he watches the water lick at the rocks and only sees light.

\---

Despite what sounded like a vague threat, Adam is grateful that Andrew wasn’t in his apartment when he got back that afternoon.

He gets time to shower away the dirt and salt still clinging to his skin, and it’s almost a shame seeing it swirl down the drain. Like a final sign that the break was over, and things were going back to normal.

Maybe not normal, he would be in Tokyo in less than forty-eight hours. But being back in L.A. for barely an hour had already set his nerves on fire. It felt like sitting too close to a campfire, sweat pooling under the collar of his t-shirt and electricity licking under his skin. He busies himself with unpacking and packing again, and before he knows it, the sky is changing colors again.

He worries he missed something, fucked up a rally when he didn’t even know the ball was in his court. The anxiety comes surging back, and he’s reaching for his phone like a man dying of thirst in the desert. His fingers, his body, his heart shake as he forces himself to hit send.

_7:52 PM_

And? Where are you?

Adam had been cursing his awful choice of words when the reply comes.

_7:54 PM_

Got held up. Be there shortly.

Adam doesn’t really know what he does in the meantime. He thinks he paced around his apartment at least ten times, maybe tried to suffocate himself in the couch cushions. His anxiousness eventually comes full circle, and he enters a strange state of calm acceptance.

When he finally feels like he can breathe again, there’s a quick knock at his front door and barely any time at all before a key turns in the lock.

Andrew shuffles in, closing the door behind him and stopping just a few paces from the doorway. The man looks good, as usual. His hair is wild and not gelled down, the way Adam likes it. And he’s even wearing the same jacket he wore the last time he came over.

Adam moves a bit closer, not quite sure what he plans to do. His heart is no longer leading him, tugging him forward when it came to all things Andrew.

He’s suddenly feeling out of place in his own apartment: like he’d gone off on some life-changing pilgrimage and just didn’t fit in with the furniture anymore. His hair had gotten too long, and it was only hastily brushed before he attempted to half-heartedly detangle his beard. He even managed a tan; freckles blooming across his nose and cheeks, tan lines across his wrists from his bracelets.

He came home feeling like he figured something out, but what exactly? He was certain of how he felt about the man standing across from him, but definitely not certain on  _what to do_ about it.

Adam’s trying to flounder through a joke about this being the worst day for him to get held up, when Andrew shuts him up instantly.

“You don’t have to be scared of me.”

His face is gentle. The determination he saw in his eyes just a few months ago in Australia is still there, but they’re hidden behind uncertainty. Adam’s too caught up in realizing ‘ _hey, maybe you do know what to do about Andrew_ ’ that what he says doesn’t register. Then _suddenly_ , everything shifts.

They both move closer, coming together slowly but surely. That final lap had come to an end, and they were finally meeting each other in the middle of it all. Adam reaches for one of his hands, grips Andrew’s fingers like a vice. The man squeezes back, and the pain, the ache grounds him again.

They just breathe for a few moments, and watch each other. Adam’s looking down into that sea of green, and this time, he doesn’t much mind that he’s drowning.

“You really terrify me, Andrew.”

Adam kisses him, and doesn’t regret it in the slightest.

It’s almost _too warm_. Like scorching asphalt against his face. Adam wants to sink into it, swallow the heat until his entire soul catches fire. It’s only a beat before Andrew tilts, opening his mouth and sliding his tongue softly against his bottom lip. Andrew’s free hand comes up to card through his beard, and Adam settles his timidly around the hard lines of the others’ hip.

It ends far too quickly, that heat Adam wished for setting fire to his lungs and they ached for relief. He doesn’t stray far, nose pressed against Andrew’s cheek as they catch their breath.

“You don’t have to be scared of me,” Andrew repeats, softer, almost like a plea. The hand on his jaw had moved around his shoulder, tugging them impossibly closer.

For a second, he is. He’s scared this isn’t what Andrew really wants, that he’s going to run away again just like he did  in Australia, that they’re going to crash and burn, destroy everything they’ve cultivated just for a shot at _something more_.

He’s brought back by the hand in his, and it’s honestly starting to get a little sweaty and gross. But Andrew’s looking at him like he’s terrified, uncertain but too lovestruck to care, and Adam realizes, ‘ _oh. He feels the same as you’_.

“I know. Just– let’s take it slow.”

Adam takes a shaky breath, and leans back in.

\---

They go out for drinks their last night in Tokyo, and Andrew calls it their first date. Adam tries to point out that ‘Matt and Rie are literally ordering us drinks right now’, but the man won’t hear any of it.

Andrew slips his hand in his, palm already sticky from the intense humidity of the Japanese summer, and accepts the glass of bourbon from Matt with his other.

Neither of them let go.

\---

“Can you make me those cheesy potatoes? The aligot?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

\---

It’s been 5 months and 10 days– Adam looks at the plate of onaga in front of him and thinks about how he ended up here.

Honolulu looks like something out of a storybook, and even though they’re here for work, he can’t help but get caught up in the island’s charm. It’s late January, but the weather is still gorgeous and comfortable. Andrew thinks otherwise, but the man didn’t even pack a pair of _shorts_. Adam laughs at him the entire trip, only relenting when he’s being pushed back into their hotel bed with a rough kiss.

They stay together after they get back to L.A. And after another trip to New York, after they finish filming the rest of the season, after they win a Streamy, after post-production, after after after. Adam loses track of how “afters” they have, because well. Things don’t really change.

They’re still Adam and Andrew: who film videos for Tasty together, who try to one-up each other with ridiculously named wines, who “begrudgingly” deal with Steven Lim by tossing candy at his hair. But now, Adam and Andrew include vacations up to the Redwood coast. And brushing a hand through the other’s hair while asking what they want for dinner. And quick kisses before, during, and after work.

No, things haven’t changed much at all.

The onaga kind of reminds him of that. Things that can change _so much_ just by being put together.

He says more than he _ever_ has on camera. It just kind of feels right.

“It seems crazy, but then once you experience it, it's like that's the only way it could have happened.”

He’s looking up at Andrew now, watching his eyes go wide at the words. Everything around them fades away: the rosé, the cameras, Steven, Honolulu. It’s just Adam and Andrew.

The smile that overtakes his face is so loving and bright, and Adam doesn’t dare look away.

**Author's Note:**

> during their next wine night, andrew brings a bottle of “gay rosé” (naked winery) and adam almost breaks the bottle over his head


End file.
